


Para-Noir

by Butcherjones



Category: Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Abuse, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2010-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:29:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butcherjones/pseuds/Butcherjones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why do you beat me?" The Joker wonders that himself. GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF ABUSE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Para-Noir

"Why do you beat me?"

He'd never forget the day she'd asked him that. Stupid little girl. She couldn't help it, really; she had no concept of having power, of the pleasure of giving pain. Not even the pleasure of recieving it. No, she wanted his lips soft at the nape of her neck, his hands drawing silky lines down her sides, fingers teasing her to ecstacy. Stupid girl.

She could never understand the satisfaction he got from seeing her crumpled on the floor, twitching in a puddle of blood, knowing that he put her there. In a way he couldn't quite understand it himself. Yes, it made him feel powerful; yes, she was his whore and after all, what else would one do to a whore? But that wasn't the only reason. He knew it in his gut. He was reminded of it every time he slapped her pretty little face, every time his hands squeezed her tits until they bruised, every time he cracked his fist into her jaw or choked the breath from her supple throat.

He needed her. It made him physically sick to think of it - but he knew it was true. It was a bitter fact that kept that flame eternally burning in his belly, that constant thorn in his side whenever he'd see her staring up at him with those damned adoring blue eyes, eroding his soul with hatred - that is, if he still had one.

Yes, he needed to see that disgusting look in her eyes to satisfy that secret need, to quench the fire of hatred in his guts. Needed her crawling on her knees, begging for his approval like some god-damned puppy, so that he could put his boot in her belly and kick her to the curb. He needed her to need him, to long for him, to adore him, so that he could satisfy this urge and feel that blissful euphoria that he longed for, that he adored.

He hated her for that. Hated her perhaps more than he'd ever hated anyone, because it was she who had taken away the frivilous joy of random violence from him, she who had gotten him hooked to that fucking drug, whatever it was, that only she could provide. Every bruise he'd ever left, every bloody clump of hair he'd torn from a thousand other whores meant nothing when compared to the feeling he got when he did it to her. How exquisite were her screams, how decadent the sound of bone smashing into flesh, how extravagent the feeling of lust and rage that built furiously inside of him until he sprayed his fuck on her crumpled body, pearly-white semen mixing with the purple-red coagulating blood on the cold stone floor.

"Why do you beat me?" she'd asked him, and he'd wanted nothing more at that moment than to put a bullet through her worthless skull. But he couldn't. That was the irony of the thing, that was the joke at his expense.

Because you're my whore. Because I am a whore. Because I need you and I can't stand that.

"I beat you," he sneered bitterly, "because you ask why I beat you."


End file.
